


full of things that have never been

by cydonic



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Kiss, First Time, Hand Jobs, Kid Fic, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:42:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28444857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cydonic/pseuds/cydonic
Summary: A train ride home, a chance meeting, and a new way to farewell an old year.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 40
Kudos: 235





	full of things that have never been

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kinesnerd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinesnerd/gifts).



> Happy New Year friends! May 2021 be kinder on us all. 💖
> 
> This came from a prompt on Twitter by the lovely [Kinesnerd](https://twitter.com/kinesnerd) who requested:  
>  _My prompt is Steve meets Bucky when his adopted 2 year old is touching Bucky’s shoulder/hair when they’re sitting next to each other on the subway and Bucky didn’t notice at first cause he was on the phone_
> 
> I did absolutely 0 research on anything except for a cursory Google for the subway stations. If things are wrong, please pretend you do not see them. 
> 
> Also, follow me on Twitter [@_cydonic](https://twitter.com/_cydonic) 🥰

It’s been a long day - the sort of long that drags at every part of your body until even the act of breathing is draining. Bucky is used to long days, of course, because that is simply par for the course for anyone working in retail during the Christmas and New Year period, but that doesn’t help him now. Now, when he is trying desperately to keep his eyes open on the subway ride home, scrolling mindlessly through Instagram photos he’s already seen before. Each blink is longer and longer, the effort involved in opening them again almost too much, but Bucky prevails.

It’s New Year’s Eve, at least. He’s not expected at work tomorrow because he’s worked every day since Christmas and is finally - _finally_ \- due a day off. It’s a good day for him in what’s been a season full of not-good things, like the abundance of middle-aged white women who accused him, specifically, of ruining Christmas because they’d left all their shopping to December 24th. Or the child who threw up on the floor in the middle of the Lego aisle after eating too many Christmas chocolates, and every other staff member _conveniently_ found themselves occupied when he called for assistance to clean up. Or the plethora of fake IDs and angry teens who’d tried to buy their New Year’s booze from him.

It’s been a shitty day, out of a shitty week, a shitty month, a shitty _year_ , but Bucky has two things to look forward to. One, the aforementioned single day off work before he has to deal with the avalanche of new year health and fitness purchases. Two, a day where he will be left entirely alone, to eat what he wants, drink what he wants, and watch whatever he wants on his shitty television.

Bucky blinks himself back to the present and glances up when the train grinds to a halt and a robotic voice announces their stop. Only two stations to go, then a few blocks of walking, then he’s _free_.

If only something would stop tugging at his head. Bucky lifts a hand up to brush over his haggard ponytail, assuming that part of it has gotten caught on something. It has gotten caught on something, that’s true, but Bucky’s fingers brush against warm skin and he thinks this _must_ be God testing him because the last thing he needed to top off his day was a creepy person on the train playing with his hair.

With a deep breath, Bucky steels himself, and turns in his seat.

He expects to find some older woman who wants to coo over his hair until she realises Bucky is not a girl, at which point she can start to complain about men these days. Or, even worse, some creepy guy who just smiles at him and forces Bucky to take the wrong stop and walk an extra mile home just to avoid being stalked and probably murdered.

Wouldn’t that be festive?

Instead of either of those things, what Bucky comes face-to-face with is a tiny child, smiling at him.

Any sharp retort Bucky had prepared dies on his tongue, and the child laughs a little. The small creature slaps his hand on the seat, and says something that sounds somewhat like, “where’d it go?” if all the words were smushed into one.

“Oh,” Bucky sighs, and obediently sits still while the child tugs another strand of hair from his ponytail to play with.

Bucky watches joy light up the boy’s face, his cheeks still holding onto some of their baby fat, though they’re smattered with a handful of freckles now. His hair is the loveliest looking red Bucky has seen, and he almost wants to reach out and touch it himself, just to see what it feels like.

“God, I’m so sorry,” says the adult beside the toddler, and Bucky belatedly notices that the two-year-old isn’t just riding a train on his own.

No, seated beside him - arms and lap full of shopping bags and baby supplies - is one of the sweetest looking guys Bucky’s ever seen. He looks sincerely apologetic, trying to organise his mountain of things so he can grab his child.

“Don’t worry,” Bucky says, leaning over to give the child better access to his hair. He tugs on it in a way that is a little painful, but Bucky’s willing to endure that for the delight on his chubby little face.

“No, Arthur,” the man says, leaning over to untangle his son’s fingers from Bucky’s hair. “We don’t just touch people without asking.”

Arthur protests this very clearly by tightening his hold on Bucky and saying a very resolute, “no!”

Bucky leans his head in further, braced for the eventual scalping he is about to undergo at Arthur’s hands, but the man just sighs and gives up. Bucky, and his hair, are both very thankful for that decision. “It’s okay,” Bucky says again, and Arthur’s grip loosens up when there’s no longer any threat to him.

The man, with his cheeks now an embarrassed pink that Bucky longs to touch, says, “Bay Ridge Ave,” somewhat apologetically.

Which would be fine, except Bucky’s stop at Prospect Avenue is a good five stations ahead of Arthur and his father’s. It doesn’t explain why Bucky just smiles tiredly back and says, “me too.”

Is it that he’s so desperate for human contact that involves kindness? Is it that he hasn’t been around a child who wasn’t complaining or screaming or vomiting in weeks? Or is it something to do with the sweet man whose smile has brightened knowing that now he has company?

“Well, just let me know if he gets too rough,” the man says to Bucky, before turning his gaze onto Arthur, who is paying attention to nothing except for Bucky’s hair. “Remember, Arthur, gentle.”

Arthur obediently repeats, “gentle,” and keeps tugging on Bucky’s hair. It’s not the roughest. Bucky supposes it’s the best he can hope for from a toddler.

The train rattles along, and the chattering of other passengers fades into the background. Bucky could almost fall asleep again, only Arthur occasionally pulls a little too hard and keeps him present in the moment.

Bucky figures it’s rude of him to just sit there and not say anything, so he clears his throat and turns back to the man - ignoring Arthur’s noise of complaint - and offers one hand. The man is looking at him. Or at Arthur. Probably Arthur. “Sorry, I forgot to - I’m Bucky,” he explains, not sure why he loses his words when the man looks at him like that. Like he’s seeing Bucky as a human, not someone to be abused for a freebie on their receipt.

“I’m Steve,” the newly-introduced Steve says, taking Bucky’s hand and shaking it, the shopping bags looped over his wrist knocking against each other. “Nice to meet you, Bucky.”

“Thanks - you too,” Bucky answers, head jerking when Arthur turns back to his father without letting go of Bucky’s hair.

“Arthur,” Steve scolds, but instead of pulling his child away, he shuffles closer to Bucky. It gives Arthur the dual benefit of hanging off of Steve’s forearm with one chubby hand and keeping a tight hold on Bucky with the other.

Bucky, accordingly, turns in towards Arthur until his knees unintentionally bump against Steve’s beneath his load of shopping. He lets out a breath. “So, do you have any big plans for tonight?” Bucky asks, because if he doesn’t he will think about the sparks coming from the contact between their legs. It’s a little bit pathetic.

Steve laughs, but it feels self-deprecating. “Probably changing diapers and fighting with this one at bedtime.”

  
“Fun stuff,” Bucky replies sarcastically. “Not staying up for the countdown, then?”

“He’s certainly not,” Steve says, ruffling Arthur’s hair with his other hand, knocking a bag of shopping onto the floor with a muffled curse.

It’s impossible for Steve to lean over with everything on his lap, so Bucky picks it up for him - ignoring the warning tug his hair receives in response.

“Thanks,” Steve says, awkwardly opening the hand Arthur is clinging to in expectation. Bucky instead settles the bag on his own lap, to spare Steve from trying to balance it on top of the already precarious stack he has.

Steve’s eyebrows tilt in, just a fraction, and Bucky wonders about that - why he’s so reluctant to allow someone else to give him a helping hand. “It’s fine, I can hold it,” Steve argues, and Arthur complains in his own language which is interspersed with words Bucky vaguely recognises.

“I don’t know how you’re holding all the things you’re holding right now, Steve,” Bucky replies with a small smile, ignoring Steve’s frustrated huff.

It’s not like he’s looking at Steve’s shopping, anyway. Bucky’s scanned enough of it this month that he really couldn’t care less - Steve’s bags could be loaded up with silicone dicks and gallon tubs of lube and Bucky would just think _good for him_.

“What about you?” Steve asks, still looking a little frustrated, which brings Bucky a weird sense of delight.

“What about me?” Bucky replies, mind drawing a blank on what they’d been talking about previously.

“New Year’s Eve,” Steve reminds him, shaking his head.

Oh. Yeah. _That_.

Bucky shrugs. “Probably going to order in and pass out by nine.”

“Wild night, huh?”

“Sounds about as wild as yours,” Bucky answers and then, because he’s a disaster, adds, “at least you’re not gonna be alone.”

Steve looks over at Bucky, and that niggle in his brow turns into concern. Bucky hates it, so he instead looks back at Arthur, who is as delighted as ever to still be tugging his hair to and fro.

“It’s just the two of us. Almost like being alone,” Steve says, and it doesn’t sound sad, but it doesn’t necessarily sound happy, either.

They sit in silence through the next station, where a multitude of people stand up and crowd each other to be the first off the train. Likewise, those waiting to board also try to cram in, and it results in an inefficient process on both ends.

Bucky hears the light snort and turns to look at Steve. He raises an eyebrow in question. “I hate rude people,” Steve says in explanation, and Bucky makes a small, amused noise in response, tension forgotten - or at least set aside.

“Don’t know many people who don’t,” Bucky replies sagely, after spending weeks dealing with them in the pre- and post-Christmas rushes.

Arthur places a hand on Bucky’s shoulder and uses the leverage to gain access to more of his hair, chattering happily as he works.

Steve hums in agreement.

The silence returns again, and Bucky wonders if he made a huge mistake. It’s not like saying he’d be alone for New Year’s Eve is any kind of revelation. Plenty of people spend the night alone. Plenty of people go to bed early. Staying up until midnight is somewhat meaningless in the grand scheme of things. The new year is coming, whether you invite it in or sleep through its arrival.

Bucky zones out a little there, with Arthur climbing almost onto his lap and Steve not saying anything. The robotic voice heralds each stop as they pass it.

He doesn’t even notice that they’ve announced his supposed stop, and that Steve is clamouring to his feet, trying to remain upright even when loaded up like a pack mule. “Bucky?” He asks, confused, and Bucky blinks back to the present.

Right. Bay Ridge. _Fuck_.

Arthur, who’s been in Bucky’s lap for a few stops now, is scooped up in one hand - Steve’s errant bag of shopping in the other. He approaches the door quickly, much quicker than Steve could, and places his body in the way of the doors closing on them.

Steve shuffles to the door, the pair of them ignoring the disgruntled passengers and the way the robotic voice repeatedly asks them to stand clear.

They barely make it to a nearby pillar, at which point Steve dumps his shopping on the ground and Bucky gently places Arthur down. Or tries to, anyway. Arthur fusses and curls his fingers into a tiny, angry fist, and the scalping Bucky had expected earlier has suddenly reappeared as a very real threat.

“Do you wanna go with Daddy?” Bucky asks gently.

“No!” Arthur insists, digging his little heels in - both figuratively and physically, Bucky can feel them kicking into his stomach and back.

“Arthur,” Steve says in a warning tone, holding his hands out to take him.

Arthur turns his head away and buries it in Bucky’s neck, chanting, “no!” over and over and drawing plenty of attention their way.

“I can walk you home?” Bucky offers instead because it seems to be a happy medium. He keeps his hair; Steve doesn’t have to put up with a screaming child.

“What way are you?” Steve asks, gesturing to the two possible exits from the station.

Bucky knows that he should think of a lie, point one way and roll with it, but his mind goes helpfully blank. It’s static. It’s worse than static, it’s nothing.

“Bucky?” Steve presses, as Bucky shuffles Arthur to his other arm.

“Let me walk you home,” Bucky repeats. “I could use the exercise.”

Steve’s eyes narrow again, and Bucky knows he’s this close to calling Bucky out on his bullshit, but perhaps thinks better of it. “Fine,” Steve huffs, and makes a show of loading his arms up with as many bags as he can, just to prove a point.

Bucky gathers what Steve leaves for him, which is the same, solitary bag as before.

Steve leads the way out of the subway and onto the street. Bucky tries to fall into step behind him so they aren’t taking up too much of the sidewalk, but Steve just stops and turns around. Bucky looks at the strain on his arms. It’d be amusing if it wasn’t so stupidly stubborn.

“Want me to take some bags?” Bucky offers in a way that he thinks is very sweet.

Steve doesn’t look impressed.

“Walk in front of me,” Steve demands, and Bucky just blinks at him.

“I don’t know where to go.”

“And you’re holding my child,” Steve says, looking pointedly at Arthur. “You either walk where I can see you, or let Arthur give you a new hairdo.”

Bucky considers his options for approximately a split second before deciding he likes his hair where it is, attached to his scalp. “You’re going to direct me?”

Steve rolls his eyes in response, but obediently gives Bucky directions from right behind him.

Arthur seems to enjoy the trip home, because he chatters away in Bucky’s ear as he walks - he can distinctly make out the words, “dad,” “woof,” and, “puss cat,” as they go. Everything else probably makes sense to Steve, his father, but not to Bucky, who doesn’t speak the language of _child_.

Luckily for the both of them, Steve’s building is only a few minutes from the station. He drops all of his groceries in order to get out a key and let them in, at which point Bucky not-so-sneakily picks up a few more to lighten the load.

Despite having only met about half an hour ago, Bucky’s getting used to Steve’s unimpressed glare - and he actually kinda likes it.

“We’re on the first floor,” Steve explains, leading Bucky up one flight of blessedly short stairs before they’re stopping again so Steve can unlock his apartment door.

Bucky would normally wait to be invited in, but his arms are full and he’s not sure he can hold out much longer. Steve is deceptively strong - he’s not got any visible muscles, but it must be all the baby carrying that does it. Arthur has to be a good thirty pounds, and Bucky’s arms are _aching_.

Arthur, once inside the apartment, releases Bucky’s hair and says, “down,” which is an instruction Bucky is only too happy to comply with.

After letting Arthur roam free, Bucky takes the bags of groceries he’s been holding and puts them on the counter, rubbing his sore arms. Steve, he notices, does _not_ do this, even though his arms are streaked with red marks. Bucky wonders if his arms really don’t hurt, or if he just won’t admit it. Bucky long ago outgrew that kind of bravado.

Steve doesn’t waste time, going through the insulated bags and putting away groceries in the refrigerator. Bucky watches him work awkwardly for a moment before he feels another tugging - this time at his pants.

“Look,” Arthur says, offering Bucky an empty teacup.

Bucky crouches down and takes it, pretending to take a sip from the dirty blue plastic. “Very yummy,” Bucky says, with the sort of over-the-top expression that makes Arthur giggle happily. “Thank you.”

“More?” Arthur says, snatching the cup back from Bucky.

“More,” Bucky agrees, and Arthur runs off towards - well, something. Wherever the cup came from, presumably.

Bucky glances up to find Steve staring at him, the fridge beeping in displeasure at having been left open too long.

Steve looks torn between glaring at Bucky once more or sighing and ignoring him. He settles for an awkward, in-between look. “You’ve really got no one?” Steve asks, turning back to the fridge to rearrange some of the shelves.

Bucky sighs, and even he can’t muster up much enthusiasm when Arthur returns with another cup full of air. He takes it nonetheless, and sips slowly at it this time. “Nah,” Bucky says, aiming for levity and missing spectacularly, “but that’s okay.”

Steve’s shoulders are up by his ears as he looks seriously at two different bottles of milk. “Me neither,” he says eventually, shoving both bottles sideways wherever they’ll fit.

Bucky would relate, except his own house has some frozen meals, ketchup, and beans in the cupboard. It definitely wouldn’t keep a growing child well-fed. It barely keeps Bucky going.

Then, Bucky gets the distinct feeling he’s overstayed his welcome. He’s not sure what does it, just that the notion settles uncomfortably on his skin and he can’t quite shake it.

He should go.

“I should go,” Bucky says at last, even as Arthur pushes at his knee and asks, “ _more?_ ”, even as Steve turns to look at him with something like - betrayal.

“You don’t have to,” Steve says, and colours again, that beautiful pink from earlier on the train. Bucky _should_ go. “If you wanted something to do tonight.”

Bucky would love to. He’d love to just - be with someone. Someone not abusing him for doing his best. “I don’t think I can stay awake that late.”

“Me neither,” Steve says, with a small smile, “and neither will he. But we could order in. Watch a movie. Only if you want to.”

God, Bucky has never wanted anything _more_.

But he’s in his work uniform, the same one that smells like his sweat and the displeasure of every customer he’s upset today, and he’s sure he looks a mess, and -

“I should go home and shower,” Bucky says, looking at himself.

Steve’s shoulders drop a fraction. “I smell like baby most of the time. You’re fine.”

“Steve,” Bucky says, but it’s an argument he hasn’t prepared - it lives and dies in that one syllable. Perhaps because he has no argument. He wants to stay.

“Bucky,” Steve responds, closing the complaining refrigerator and coming to stand in front of him. The top of Steve’s head just grazes Bucky’s chin, but when he looks up like that the intensity of his gaze levels the difference between them. “You can say no.”

Bucky sighs, because that’s not it either. It’s been so long since he really, properly interacted with anyone - and maybe that’s influencing him here, but he feels a certain… something. He wants to stay and get to know Steve more. He wants to keep drinking pretend tea from Arthur’s cups.

“I don’t want to,” Bucky breathes.

“Say yes, then.”

Bucky laughs, because it isn’t that easy - except maybe it is. Maybe for just tonight, it could be. “Yes,” Bucky says, finally.

Steve smiles, then pivots away from him to put the rest of the groceries away.

Arthur complains and snatches the cup away from Bucky, taking it back to wherever it came from. Bucky eventually pushes himself upright, then goes to help Steve put everything away. Steve, Bucky’s noticing, doesn’t like accepting help from anyone. He swats at Bucky’s attempts to assist him, while effortlessly stepping around Arthur who offers both of them an assortment of plastic food.

The domesticity of it all is charming, and Bucky finds that sleepy brain of his lapsing into indulgent fantasies of this being real.

It flows outward from there in a way that feels almost perfect: Arthur eats dinner, has a change of clothes, and goes to bed surprisingly easily; Steve tosses takeaway menus at Bucky and demands he pick something to eat, and he can’t be bothered deciding so he opts for pizza; the pair of them browse Netflix while waiting for their delivery.

The air between them is charged, and Bucky is sure he isn’t the only one to notice. The pizzas go on the coffee table, garlic bread broken in half between them, and Bucky half-focuses on the movie playing on the small television screen. It’s something generic and actiony, and Bucky didn’t pay attention at the beginning to know whether there’s a tangible plot worth following.

It doesn’t really matter anyway, because he can feel Steve’s eyes on the side of his face, and it makes him feel warm all over.

Steve is the first one to give up on the pretence of watching the movie. The remainders of the pizza are few and far between. Bucky is full - of food, of warmth, of good company.

“Should I go?” Bucky asks, turning on the couch to face Steve.

“I don’t want you to,” Steve answers, slowly, his eyes lit up by the glow from the Netflix menu.

Bucky swallows down a token protest. “Okay,” he says, which is the most useless thing anyone has ever said in this kind of situation.

“Okay?” Steve asks, with a small, almost tentative smile, one eyebrow raised. “Just okay?”

Bucky heaves a sigh that turns into a laugh. “What do you wanna do then?”

Steve’s cheeks go pink, or maybe it’s the red cast from the television screen. “I meet a cute guy on the train, who’s good with kids, and take him back to my apartment?” Perhaps it’s not embarrassment, because that’s as clear a come-on as any Bucky’s heard. Or perhaps Steve is continuing despite that. “What do you think I wanna do?”

Bucky’s exhale this time is unsteady. “Really?” He - can’t quite believe it. Bucky wouldn’t say they’d been flirtatious on the train, or even at Steve’s place. More than anything, it had just felt - kind of easy. Natural, almost, with the exception of a few moments Bucky put down to his own stupid, tired mind.

“Is that a yes?” Steve asks, now sitting on his knees opposite Bucky on the couch. He crawls closer.

Bucky respects his bravery. He respects it so much that Bucky leans in, eyes trained on Steve’s, a hand hovering just beside his cheek. “Yes.”

“Good,” Steve sighs, then he’s eagerly pressing his lips to Bucky’s.

It’s not chaste and innocent, which is good, because Bucky didn’t think he could manage either of those things. It’s raw and a little desperate - Steve kisses like it’s a fight, like there’s something to be won, and Bucky’s just trying to keep up. There are teeth knocking against teeth, scraping against lips, tongues tangled. There are ragged breaths drawn in wherever possible, because to part here, now, is unthinkable.

Bucky’s hand drags across Steve’s cheek, grips his hair, holds him close. Steve may have had the upper hand, but Bucky isn’t about to lay back and let him do all of the hard work. Bucky tugs on his hair, tilts his head back, and starts to ravage his neck. He’s not in the business of leaving marks, but he does drag his teeth along the juncture of Steve’s neck and shoulder - repeats the movement again when he notices the shiver it elicits.

“Buck,” Steve breathes, desperately, and he’s not the patient sort Bucky is noticing.

No, patience is a virtue that Steve very clearly does _not_ possess. His hands are already on the fly of Bucky’s work pants, pressing him through the fabric, forcing his breath to jerk to a halt.

“Jesus, Steve,” Bucky manages, choked up, nose against the hollow of his throat.

“I’m not in the business of denying myself what I want,” Steve explains slowly through uneven breaths. His hand keeps working, relentless and firm, and Bucky feels his body respond accordingly.

Bucky is a simple man, after all, and what he needs is a gorgeous blonde to take him apart on his couch. That’s all. It’s not much to ask.

“Please,” Bucky says, adjusting his hands so they’re on Steve’s hips - then, untucking his shirt, then, sliding up the warm sides of his body.

Bucky wants to learn every inch of Steve’s body, but not like this - not with desperate hands, Netflix asking if they’re still there, pizza cooling on the table. This isn’t the time for that. Bucky’s not sure if there will be a time for that later, but he hopes - _oh_ , he hopes.

Even if there isn’t, though, nothing will change the magic of this.

Steve’s fingers – the sneaky, horrible things that they are – work effortlessly to free him. Bucky can’t do anything other than hold onto Steve for dear life as he wraps a hand around Bucky and strokes him slowly, setting up a torturous pace that Bucky can’t abide by for long. His hips jerk into Steve’s hand, and Bucky kisses Steve only to chase away the knowing chuckle he can’t contain.

Bucky pants against Steve’s mouth, kissing him in between moments when he needs to breathe or he might die, biting down on Steve’s lip when he twists his wrist _just so_ , when he slows the pace down just to make Bucky whine.

“Come here,” Bucky mumbles against Steve’s lips, using his hands to lift Steve into his lap, seating him over his thighs. Steve’s knees fall to either side of Bucky’s body, trapping him there, and his hand keeps up its unbearable rhythm.

At least, until Bucky worms his own fingers into Steve’s waistband. He’s grateful for the elastic he can simply readjust, meaning that he doesn’t have to give up the closeness to get his hands around Steve.

And get his hand around Steve he does.

While Steve has been teasing and torturing him, Bucky can tell it hasn’t gone unnoticed by his own body. Steve is hard and leaking, and Bucky encompasses him in a fist, working the precum over his soft, heated skin.

Steve _whines_. It’s high and needy, and his hand jerks to a sudden stop around Bucky. His head falls back, leaving that beautiful, pale column of skin open for the taking. Bucky leans in and leaves a bite there, admiring the already-fading red of it in the low light of the room. He pulls Steve in closer, close enough that he can wrap a hand around the both of them at once.

Touching himself is not unfamiliar to Bucky. Touching himself with someone else’s cock right there, though? It’s impossibly good. Steve whines again, trying to keep himself quiet, and Bucky can feel Steve’s cock twitch against his own.

“Fuck,” Bucky breathes, eyes dropping to look at them - aching, leaking, _desperate_ for release, the two of them. His own pace isn’t as slow as Steve’s, but it’s got no consistency. He’s shaking with it, the _need_ , even as Steve fists a hand in his hair and draws him into another ferocious kiss.

It doesn’t take long after that.

Bucky falls first, coming over their joined hands with a gasp and a shaky cry. Steve wraps his fingers around Bucky’s and takes himself to the edge, and then over, groaning and jerking against Bucky’s body as the orgasm works through him.

Silence prevails for an endless moment, punctuated only by the sounds of their panting.

Bucky is staring at Steve. Steve is staring at Bucky. He’s not sure what it is Steve can see, but Bucky can’t look away from the sight before him: pink cheeks, swollen lips, half-lidded eyes, ruined hair. Bucky imagines this as a sight he can indulge in more often. Late at night, or early in the morning. In the middle of the day, perhaps, during a convenient nap. Bucky also fantasises about watching Steve put groceries away, and preparing fake food with Arthur, and hopping on the train to go on little adventures together.

Bucky isn’t sure whether Steve looks at him and sees the same sort of thing. A new beginning, a future that might start now, just before the strike of midnight. Or perhaps he just sees something that was fun for a night, that tided him over, that scratched a certain itch of his.

Whatever it is, though, Bucky’s glad that Steve’s seeing _something_ in him.

Steve smiles, slowly. “Happy New Year,” he says quietly after a moment, leaning in to kiss the corner of Bucky’s mouth.

“Isn’t that a midnight tradition?” Bucky asks with a breathless laugh, chasing Steve’s lips when they pull away.

“Thought you wanted to be in bed by nine,” Steve answers smartly, standing up - though Bucky watches how he holds the back of the couch to steady himself. “Let’s get cleaned up and go to bed.”

Bucky can’t imagine a better way to bring in a new, better year.


End file.
